Born Anew
by Morkhan
Summary: She is the song that hums in their blood, the strength in their flesh, the firmness in their bones.  She loves them all.  And today, She takes a new child as Her own… Spoilers for Season 6.  Dark!


**Title:** Born Anew  
**Author:** morkhan  
**Warnings:** Profound creepiness, strange, evil ideas being given form. Oh, and cursing and graphic violence. It's SPN, people.  
**Characters:** Adam, Alpha!Vamp, Sam, Dean, Samuel  
**Rating:** M  
**Word Count: **3865  
**Summary:** She is the song that hums in their blood, the strength in their flesh, the firmness in their bones. She loves them all. And today, She takes a new child as her own… Spoilers for Season 6. Dark!  
**Disclaimer:** Praise be to the CW, who provides a network for us to watch them on. Praise be to the Kripke, who provides countless interesting scenarios of horrible torment for them to suffer through. No money be given unto me, for I am but a fan.

**Author's Note**: So, the entire genesis of this essentially came from a line in 6x07, from the Alpha Vampire. "We all have our mothers… even me." It gelled with a few other ideas I've been tossing around in my head, as well as a few other sources of inspiration that… you know what? Let's just say this idea has been incubating for a while in various forms, but only recently has it achieved a point where I'm happy with writing/posting it. As is the standard with my stories, this is the most horrible fate I've condemned Adam to yet. _ I'm just… naughty. Please, review and tell me how naughty I am, or am not, for writing this. :P Enjoy!

* * *

The boy is easy to find, easier to subdue. He is but mortal, after all. But no sooner than he has captured that boy, he notices something _odd_ about him. A sterile, burning smell from his blood that raises his hackles and recalls images of wings and light from a time long past. The thought infuriates him. He wants to rip the boy's head from his shoulders, watch, listen as his neck stretches, tears and splits at the seams. He wants to bathe in his entrails, rend him into paste and spread his bits for miles. But alas, he can't. Or rather, he won't. _She_ called him to this boy. _She_ chose him.

And he would never go against _Her_ wishes.

He gathers the boy into his arms, whispers comfort into the ears of the hated thing, the angelic tool that will soon be his brother. That Her love extends even to one who bears the taint of Heaven simply astonishes him all the more. She will never cease to humble him with her ever-growing glories.

"Sleep, little vessel," says the Father of Vampires, the ones the Hunters call _Alpha_. "Mother is calling. It is time to go home."

* * *

The voyage to Her sanctuary is a long one, even for a being who can travel faster than the human eye can perceive. With a passenger, especially such a fragile, breakable one, the trip is even longer. He opts for human transportation—an automobile, driven and guarded by his children. The ride gives him time to think.

How long has it been since he first felt Her stirring in Her slumber once again? Days. Months. Years. He cannot remember when he first noticed the feel of Her rising once again in his blood. It matters little. Like the sun in the East, She is rising slowly, and though he is certain he was one of the first to note it, he knows that by now, there is not one among Her progeny who does not feel Her dawn approaching and_ tremble_ with excitement. He, too, trembles at the thought. Soon, all that lives will follow his example.

Speaking of awakenings…

"Whu… wh'r…?" The boy's limbs are heavy and stiff, his mouth unable to form the words to his many questions. His uncoordinated movements and meaningless utterances recall a newborn babe, and the irony is not lost on him.

"It is not where you are," he replies. "It is where you are going."

This seems to take root in the boy's mind, bringing him into full awareness. "What?" he says, the look of prey in his eyes. "Who are you?"

The smell of fear tickles his appetite, and his fangs long to sink into the smooth skin of the vessel's neck. His smile is all teeth. "I have no name," he says, and it is the truth. He recalls no name, and has never needed one. "But some call me 'Father.'"

A spark appears behind the boy's eyes, and something ignites within him. "You're not _my_ father," he spits.

Oh, it is nearly too much. The defiant ones are always delicious. Adrenaline is a powerful spice. "I suppose not," he says, turning a thought over in his mind. "So defensive…" he says. "You must love your father very much."

A fresh wave of heat rushes outwards from his core. "I don't have a father," he says, simply.

"Oh?" he queries. "A virgin birth, are we? I remember the last time we had one of those," he smiles. "It didn't end well."

His flinch is subtle. Less astute eyes would have missed it. "Who are you?" he asks again.

"So, I assume you have a mother," he continues.

His pulse slows. "She's dead," he says. "What the Hell difference does it make?"

His next smile is all _fangs_. "Ah," he says. "An orphan, then. You poor boy."

His eyes widen again, yet the fright is understated, almost as if he expected the sight. "Wow, grandpa, what sharp-ass teeth you have," the boy replies, slipping back into the rapid heartbeat of fight or flight thought. "All the better to eat me with, I guess. Well, snack happy." He spreads his arms, face slipping into a mask of defiance to hide his terror. His poker face is admirable, but his heart betrays him. The heart never lies.

"I'm not going to eat you," the Father of Vampires replies. "I would, in any other circumstance, of course, but today is a special day. Today is… your birthday."

The orphan's hand moves to the car door. "No, it's not."

"Ah, but it is," he continues. "Today, you are born anew. A new life, a new family… a new Mother." He graces the boy with a true smile, a rare occurrence for one like himself. "We are going to meet her now."

The boy's eyes go wide as he flings the door open and tries to dive headlong out of the vehicle, but there was never any chance of escape. With a movement so quick it creates an audible clap of displaced air, he snatches the young vessel by his collar and hauls him back into the car. His fingers close around the boy's neck, squeezing just enough to choke, and oh, how easy it would be to squeeze just a _little_ harder, crush his spine into powder and _feast_. But he does not. Instead, he gently strokes the boy's hair as the light leaves his eyes. "There, there, my little orphan. Don't be afraid," he croons. "We'll be home soon."

He does not stir for the rest of the trip.

* * *

For hours and hours, they walk. His children bear the limp body of the orphan, while he leads the way to Her. The vehicle is abandoned, no longer able to bear them through the deep forest and up the mountain, into the cave and down, down, _down_. The paths are manifold, labyrinthine, choked in shadows deeper and older than any night. Even in Her deepest slumber, She can be felt here. The caves echo with Her breath, deep as the ocean, regular as the tide, strong as the hurricane. Her power pulses through the caverns, the heartbeat of a creature older than any so-called God.

She whispered the truth in his ear as she crafted him. _She_ was here first. Before the demons, before the angels, before the Demiurge and his pathetic attempts at fleshcraft, there was _Her_, and Her children. The Demiurge slew them, slaughtered them all and buried her deep beneath the Earth. He wounded her deeply, rendered her barren and unable to recreate her beloved children, all to make way for _his_ creations. She hates him, _loathes_ his angels, and yet… She does not hate his humans. For, whether they realize it or not, their bodies were created from _Her_ essence. Their flesh is hers—the so-called Creator God created _nothing_, he simply arranged the raw materials. The humans are not to blame for their flaws, they cannot be held accountable for their imperfect births. No, She longs to call out to them, to hold them in Her arms and _perfect_ them, as She has perfected him, and the other Alphas. More than that, She longs to _love_ them, as She loved her own children, for Her love is as boundless and timeless as the infinite abyss of space. It is Her greatest glory of all.

Even now, he feels Her love. It washes over him, seeps into his skin as he draws nearer, tingles and warms him in every cell that composes his being.

He smiles as he feels his children absorbing the atmosphere. They, too, can feel Her love, connected to Her through him. The link is diluted, weaker than it should be, but it is better than nothing. Alas, he cannot allow them to go any further, lest Her great love… _overwhelm_ them.

"Stop," he commands. "Leave the boy with me. You may go no further."

Their sad eyes regard him with disappointment. One begins to step forward, but a simple glare is all it takes to stop him in his tracks. Their eyes must not look upon Her great and terrible form, not until She is ready to complete them. "Go!" he says. They scatter. He knows they will find their way back to the surface.

They are deep, deep beneath the Earth. No light from the surface has ever touched this place, nor will it ever. He and his brethren need no light to perceive the world around them. The boy's life wanes... the Father of Vampires can hear his heart sputtering, his lungs trying desperately to filter the unfamiliar, ancient air of this place.

He kneels beside the boy's head, gently patting his cheek. "Rise and shine, little orphan. It's time to meet Mother."

The boy moans, and his pulse quickens. _"…I… I can't_…" he rasps, limbs suddenly flailing outwards as he becomes aware of his surroundings. He chokes and sputters, wheezes as Her breath enters his lungs.

He picks up the boy, impervious to his struggles, and carries him forward. "Yes," he smiles. "I understand. I, too, was afraid at first. But soon you will see… there is nothing to fear."

They enter into Her chamber.

Her whispers fill the air, hundreds of mouths leaking forth primal utterances of unfathomable thought. The massive chamber seems to stretch for miles, the walls themselves seeming to swell and collapse in time with Her exhalations. Even in the impenetrable darkness of the deep, Her presence is so powerful that the boy immediately begins to scream.

"She is beautiful, is she not?" he asks, squeezing the orphan gently, offering what little reassurance he can. His love is nothing compared to Hers. "Shhhhhh," he whispers. "All will be made right soon. Go," he says, holding the screaming, flailing child up to his Mother. "Let her hold you."

He _feels_ Her heart swell with joy as she takes her newest child in her many arms. Knowing that his part in this is finished, he turns and departs.

The boy continues to scream, his shrieks rising in pitch as she begins the process of remaking him. His ears twitch sympathetically as skin is pulled from meat, meat is torn into strings, as ribs are cracked open and organs splayed, as limbs are stretched and splintered... Soon, the boy's cries stop being a reaction to pain and become like the song of a musical instrument, a natural result of the skilled hands manipulating him. It will probably be a few hours before he screams his throat bloody, and one or two more before his voice abandons him entirely.

It will be much, much longer before he stops wishing he could scream.

He smiles wistfully as he leaves Her chamber. Sometimes, love can hurt.

* * *

It is almost a year before She calls him back. He had almost forgotten about the boy, truth be told. Neither his own birth, nor the birth of any who came after him took nearly this long. He very nearly assumed that the boy was killed in the process, but the second he hears the call, he chastises himself for his lack of faith. She is the Mistress of Flesh. She does not make mistakes. That She has taken this much time to craft him can only mean that he is truly one of Her greatest works.

Her whispers envelope him as he approaches the chamber, more numerous and all-encompassing than ever. Her awakening has been slow. Like any creature that lives and sleeps, She rouses from Her torpor gradually, Her consciousness enveloping him in layers as it thaws and begins to flow. The slow, steady trickle could take _years_ to reach full capacity… but it matters not. That he feels it at all means it is already too late. She cannot be stopped. Soon, the trickle will become a creek, the creek will widen into a stream, the stream will deepen into a river, and the river will become a roaring ocean wave, sweeping them all away.

He finds the orphan kneeling before her, his naked form covered in the afterbirth of his reconstruction. As so many of her creations, his outward form is perfect, a match for his old visage cell for cell. But underneath the skin… _there_ is the work of art. The boy rocks himself back and forth as he stares at the impossible form of his Mother, grinning and occasionally even chuckling as she sings to him, a wordless lullaby that he alone can hear. "Yes," he says, nodding to Her. "Okay," he continues, pausing for just a second before adding, with utmost sincerity, "_Always_."

"Orphan?" the Alpha asks, and the boy turns to greet him.

"She's…" he stops, his breath hitching, overwhelmed with emotion. "She _**is**_ beautiful_._"The smile on his face, the look of awe and wonder and sheer, unguarded adoration that shines in his eyes is all the confirmation he needs. He has been reborn as one of Hers. The Demiurge robbed Her of the ability to spawn Her own children, but he cannot stop Her from… _adopting _his own. After hundreds of years of torpor, She has crafted another masterpiece. A new progenitor, a new _Alpha_ to go forth into the world and sire children of his own, bringing any life he can touch closer to Her loving grasp. He has no name, no pattern, no known strengths or weaknesses. He is like nothing that has come before and nothing that will come after. A new breed of monster.

The Father of Vampires steps forth and wraps Her newest son in a fierce embrace.

"Welcome to the family, little brother."

* * *

_Four Months Later_…

"Y'ello?" Dean grunts into the phone. It's 4AM, and he's _just_ getting used to that whole 'sleeping through the night' thing again, so if this is a telemarketer, Dean might damn well have to see about re-extracting Sammy's soul and siccing him on whoever—

"_Dean_," says the familiar, hated voice on the other end. In an instant, he is awake and enraged.

"Samuel," Dean growls. "I fucking told you, you **ever** come near me or Sam again…"

"_Dean, shut up. This is important._"

"No, you undead ass-basket, I have had it up to _here_ with—"

"_Goddamn it! I'm trying to fucking __**warn**__ you about something._" He sounds serious enough. But then, the old bastard didn't really have many other emotional gears.

"So warn me. Make it quick," he grunts, looking over at Sammy, sound asleep exactly the way he fucking should be.

"_Fine_," he grumbles. "_Ungrateful little… whatever. You know those rumors about disappearing hunters_?"

"Yeah," Dean says. Knows them a little too well, actually. He knew a couple of guys who went missing. He didn't really _like_ them, but most hunters are assholes to begin with, and they were trustworthy. You take what you can get. "What about them?"

"_They're not rumors_," Samuel continues. "_I'm down to two people over here. Damn near overnight, all of 'em out on different cases and contact just drops. I've been looking for a solid week, and not a goddamn one of 'em turned up. No trace. No nothing. Just… gone_."

Dean feels his blood starting to chill in his veins, but he doesn't let it leak into his voice. "So, what," he spits. "You saying we oughta get the band back together? Master Hunter Samuel afraid of the Big Bad Whatever? Want us to chase away the baddies for you?"

"_I'm __**saying**__ you and Sam need to __**watch your backs**__, you snot-nosed punk! Either all the monsters are getting __**real **__good all of a sudden, or something __**else**__ is picking off Hunters._"

"Something like **what**?" Dean near-shouts, flinching at his own volume when Sammy's head shoots up off the pillow and blearily looks around for whatever's trying to kill them.

"_That's the damn problem! I don't know what it is! __**Nobody**__ knows what it is, because nobody's left after it comes._"

'Who is it?' Sam mouths.

Dean schools his visage into a perfect imitation of Samuel Campbell's bitchface (at least they know where Sammy got that from), before replying. "How the Hell are we supposed to watch out for something we don't know anything about?"

"_I've got __**one**__ piece of evidence from this whole fucking catastrophe. One. I can't make any sense out of it, but seeing as we're family, I figured I'd share it with you anyway. Just one word, written in blood on a damn napkin found in one of the missing hunters' rooms._"

"Okay," Dean says. "And that word is…?"

* * *

Samuel massages the bridge of his nose as Dean speaks from the other end. "_Wait, __**what**__ did you say? Say it again_."

Fucking kid never did know how to listen. "I **said**—"

The phone dies in his hand.

"**Fuck**," he grunts, slamming the useless piece of crap against his desk. He just finished charging it two damn hours ago! All this lightweight, namby-pamby newfangled bullshit is so fucking fragile and unreliable, he can't believe he let himself get talked into…

"Heya, gramps," a voice says from the corner of the room.

His gun is in his hand and firing at the source of the sound before he even has a chance to think.

The thing _dodges_ his bullets like he's firing tennis balls. "Dude!" it says. "Is that how you say hello to people?"

"You're not _people_," Samuel grits.

The thing grins. "Well, not _anymore_. But what does that say about you? I mean, I'm a fuckin' monster, and **I** had the courtesy to stop and say 'hi' before I killed you. Your manners are, like, sub-subhuman."

"So, you're here to kill me. At least we got that out of the way," Samuel says.

"Not just kill you," it clarifies. "Gonna eat you, too. Maybe even in that order."

Samuel raises his gun again, but he never gets a chance to fire it. His gun is suddenly missing, along with the finger he needs to fire it.

And his arm.

He gives a pretty impressive holler, more out of shock than actual pain.

"Hey, what are you shouting about? I could've done a lot worse," the thing snorts. "All I did was disarm you."

Samuel blinks. It did not just…

"Get it?" it smiles. "Dis_arm_? I… okay, yeah that was kind of lame," it says scratching the back of its head and actually looking _bashful_.

"Just get it over with," Samuel says, clutching the bleeding stump that used to be his right arm to his chest. "You want fresh meat, I'm right here."

The thing shakes its head. "Nah. I'm not in the mood for bone-picking tonight," it says, pointing at its mouth. "My teeth are kind of sore from eating the rest of your family. You guys definitely drink your milk. Crunchy as Hell."

"So what are you gonna do with me, then?" Samuel grunts, already feeling dizzy from blood loss.

The thing's grin takes on a whole new meaning as its teeth morph into glinting, razor-sharp needles. "I figured I'd take you with me."

It slams something down on the table.

Samuel glances down at it and can't figure out if he wants to laugh or cry.

* * *

Jenny is entirely too hot to jog at night.

Her boyfriend Mike tells her this every time she goes out, and yet, somehow she always manages to make it back without being assaulted.

Which means that either Jenny is not _nearly_ as hot as everyone thinks (_impossible!_) or Mike is overreacting and there is nothing dangerous about this at all. There are not rapists on every corner waiting to attack her, there are not muggers everywhere waiting to snatch her nonexistent purse, and there are no evil woman-eating monst—

"**Whoa!**" she says, almost running right smack into someone as she jogs around a corner.

The guy, for his part, dodges pretty smoothly. "Whoa," he says. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she says, "I'm fine. Are _you_ okay?"

"Oh, yeah, I'm great," he says with a grin, and Jenny, honey, this _really_ isn't the time to be taking notice of his really nice teeth. Or his pretty blue eyes. Or that soft-looking blonde hair… AHEM. "Spilled a little, uhhh…"

"Oh," she says, and now that she looks at him, yeah, it looks like he spilled something down the front of his shirt. It looks like fruit punch, or… in his hand… is that… "Are you eating _soup_?"

His eyes go wide for a second before he looks down at the soup can in his hand, and gives her a wide grin. "Yup," he says holding the can up proudly. "'s _really_ good."

"You're walking around outside, eating tomato soup, at night," she says, giving him a skeptical look.

He shrugs. "Hey, you're a hot girl, running around and almost taking out random pedestrians, at night," he counters. "We've all got our quirks," he says, grinning again.

It's hard to stay mad at that smile. "You've got a point," she concedes. "Well… sorry I made you spill your soup," she says.

He shakes his head. "Eh, it's fine. I've been covered in worse," he says.

"Have a nice night," she says, getting ready to start her jog again.

"You too," he smiles, before turning and starting to walk away. "Stay safe!" he calls out over his shoulder.

The last thing she hears from him as he rounds the corner sounds suspiciously like "_Mm-mm, good_."

* * *

"Well, **that's** not ominous at all," Dean sighs, plopping down on the bed to try and make sense out of what he just heard.

"Phone cut out?" Sam guesses, and of course, smart little bitch is right on the money.

"Yup, and right as he was about to deliver some kind of plot-important information," Dean says. "What a freakin' coincidence."

Sam gets all thoughtful. "Wait," he says. "You said 'say it again.' That means he said _something_."

"Yeah," Dean replies. "But I must've heard it wrong."

"What makes you think that?" Sam asks.

"Well, the fact that it doesn't make any goddamn sense might have something to do with it," Dean answers.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Okay, since when is making sense a requirement in _anything_ we do?"

Dean mulls it over for a second. "Well, when you've got a point…"

"So, why don't you just tell me what it is you _think_ you heard, and we'll see what we can do from there," Sam reasons.

Dean lets out a breath through his nose, knowing that Sam's logic is sound, but still having a hard time getting the word to come out. It feels… heavy, for some reason. It takes him a second, but eventually, he gets it out in the open…

"Orphan," Dean says. "It sounded like he said 'Orphan.'"

* * *

**A/N:** Okay, so, that was fun. A lot of the stuff about the Mother of Monsters (or _MoM, _XP) was left intentionally ambiguous, though I did wind up explaining a lot more than I thought I would… if there are any questions, though, you can ask me in PM or review form and I'll be happy to clarify. Again, I love all feedback, so please review if you can!


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